For Masen, Forever ago
by LadyHelheim
Summary: 1918, a woman nurses helpless soldiers with the flu. The death of one in particular changes her views on things. Many years later, and his death still weights on her. That is, until she has a surprise. Oneshot.


**WARNING: **Please forgive me for any mistakes in grammar or spelling. English is not my first language. Feel free to correct me.

**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own the Twilight saga in any way, shape or form. It all belongs to Stephenie Meyer. This was done for the sole purpose of entertainment/fun.

**FOR MASEN, FOREVER AGO**

It was August, 1918 when it reached our hospital. I was a nurse for no longer than six months now; impressed easily, I was. There was no preparation for what was to come. The stories about the war had begun on 1914, and we still couldn't see an end to it. Perhaps there wouldn't be an end; we'd die thinking about peace, it seemed. But that was just me; I didn't understand much.

I started nursing far away from home. Chicago received me with open arms. I saw a life there, waiting for me. But it wasn't the case. Perhaps things went as they should.

We didn't call people by their names back then. The soldiers where always majors, sergeants or privates. That was when I met him; he was a private, then. I would look after him, hold his hand when he had a fever; there was nothing I wouldn't do for that lad. His mother was placed a few beds away, getting worse as time progressed. It was a wonder she hadn't died yet.

In a particular Tuesday afternoon, whilst we were receiving new sick chaps with the flu, one of the nurses said I was required on the south wing. He was there, waiting. He had a fever again. I wasn't prepared to see that; I wasn't prepared for a lot of things at the time. It looked like a river was trying to pour through his nose; there was blood all over the bed sheets. He was getting worse. I saw death in his eyes, the green slowly fading away.

I shall never understand why, from all people, I would be the only one haunted by the very thought of that green-eyed soldier. I never even knew his name. He was always Private Masen to me. I was prepared, right then and there, to hold his hand as he perished. He was as pale as the Moon against the blackest of the skies. _This man_, I thought, _will never live to see the dawn of another day. _There was a feeling of new found sadness inside of me for this boy. I barely knew him. However, every day I could see his poor mother caring for him, worsening her own condition to ensure her son's safety. And I cherished it.

I held the hand of every Tom, Dick and Harry in the last six months. I couldn't understand why it was so difficult for me to be there, holding the hand of that boy who looked younger than myself. Perhaps that was what made it difficult. The others were older. I couldn't bear seeing someone so young dying in my hands.

There was nothing to be done.

I was called by one of the doctors to receive new patients, and although I said I was busy and couldn't leave the one I was caring, he insisted. So I went.

That night, as I was leaving the north wing, I was informed by the same nurse who called me earlier that day that Private Masen had died, another victim of the Spanish flu.

The news hit me hard. I would cry every now and then, regretting the moment I left him to die on his own, no one there to hold his limp hands.

Suddenly, I could nurse no more. Every time I would hold gauze, green eyes foreseeing death would come back and haunt me. So I moved back to Scotland. My life was different, it changed for the better. As better as it could be for a woman back in the 20's, anyway. I was a maid in an Earl's house, cleaning and serving. In 1926 I fell in love with one of the footmen. He asked me in marriage in June, 1927.

It was in a spring day of 1929 when we were informed that His Lordship would have a visitor for lunch. It was chaos. No one was prepared and one of footmen fell ill. But we managed, as staff always does. Rumours where quickly spreading downstairs that this so-called visitor was a new rich, one of the fewer who managed to get through what they were now calling the Great Depression. At midday, they called us upstairs to receive the man. In a straight line, we welcomed him, never landing eyes on his face; we were only allowed to see his back.

Lunch was served normally, His Lordship taking him to the drawing room afterwards.

It was half past one when I was demanded upstairs. They sent me to the library. I would never fathom what was to happen next. To me, I would be yelled at for ruining something. But that was not the case.

As I entered the great doors to the library, I could see our visitor's back. He stood imposing, tall and darkly. I must have been standing there for quite the seconds, because he turned abruptly towards me, as if sensing me there, and with a smile, crashed my entire mind.

Looking in my eyes was the very man I was informed of the death in September, 1918. His skin was as pale as the finest sheets in the Earl's house; hair still bronze, and eyes as red as blood itself. I was terrified. This man was dead, it was confirmed so. He and his whole family had died at the hospital I worked for back in Chicago. Yet, he was there, standing as strong as ever, giving me a warm look. Then, out of nowhere, he gave me a dazzling smile, as if we were old acquaintances. Everything seemed fine, then. I could still feel this strange feeling about him, almost threateningly. But he smiled, reassuring me all was right, and that was more than enough.

Perhaps I was still naïve, the war and deaths playing no significant part in my mental growth. Then, out of the blue, he said the words which would forever stay in my heart, filling me with joy.

"Thank you."

And it was enough.

I never saw him again, nor did I want to. I was in peace, at last.


End file.
